


daedalus sighs, icarus rises

by punkrockbadger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockbadger/pseuds/punkrockbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe this man is like Harry too, someone who makes things happen but doesn’t know why.</p><p>Maybe the man knows why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. meeting one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emmar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmar/gifts).



> for queerhermione, on tumblr, a great friend and even greater gift to the art of harry potter music headcanons
> 
> trigger warning: discussion of canonical child abuse

Harry relishes the days he is allowed out to play.

Of course, as a boy of seven, he has much more energy than he knows what to do with on most days, but his relatives make sure that he expends as much of it as possible in their service, rather than wasting his waking hours on anything as mundane as play. Playing is for boys like Dudley, who do not have a care in the world, rather than cupboard dwelling freaks like Harry, who have to earn their keep.

Bruises, in colors as varied as his aunt’s prized flowers, bloom like little galaxies across the expanse of his skin, whirling across prominent ribs and kneecaps as if they are claiming his body as their universe. He still has a slight limp from burning one of Dudley’s pieces of toast two mornings ago. He got to eat it, at least, and that was more that could be said for most food in the house, no matter how spoiled or imperfect it was.

But today, he is allowed to play, because his class is on a field trip to the park.

For the very first time in his life, he is in a class that does not include Dudley or his friends, and he can do all the things he only wishes at doing when Dudley is around. He climbs up the slide and takes a turn on the swings and falls off the monkey bars until his palms are rubbed raw, but this pain feels safe and happy in a way it usually does not.

Harry decides that he would much rather have bruises and blisters from monkey bars instead of gardening, but he’s learned not to make wishes. Magic like that is reserved for children like Dudley. Harry will get leftovers, if anything at all, and Harry will be content. That is the way of things, always has been, always will be.

After he falls off the monkey bars for what he thinks must be at least the sixteenth time, he notices that there is a brown haired man, who looks about his aunt’s age, sitting on a blue painted bench directly opposite the play structure. He is watching Harry curiously, while he absentmindedly turns the pages of the book in his lap.

He looks as if he has been awake for days on end, probably sleeping on that same bench, and his clothes are just as ill-fitting as Harry’s, something he’s never seen before. Most people aren’t freaks, so they get good clothes and good food to eat, but this man looks like he hasn’t seen a good meal in years. Maybe this man is like Harry too, someone who makes things happen but doesn’t know why.

Maybe the man knows why.

Before Harry realizes what he’s doing, he is already halfway across the pavement to the bench. The nearly worn through soles of his shoes rub against the hot pavement and he winces as his too large socks chafe against the raw bottoms of his feet, but he’s standing beside the man before he can think of any reason not to be.

He chalks his inattention up to being tired and taps the man on the shoulder. His head jerks in Harry’s direction, as if he has been scared, and he looks like he’s seen a ghost while Harry carefully commits the details of his face to memory. He’s heard Aunt Petunia’s stories of scary men at parks, and if this man takes him away, he wants to remember him forever so he can thank him. “You were watching me.”

“So I was.” The man replies, shutting the paperback carefully, keeping his thumb in between the pages to hold his place. He smiles, looking kind, and Harry wonders if the man has any children. He seems like the type of man to be nice to his children, to read them stories, make Santa left them things too, and tuck them in at night. Harry wonders if his father had been like that, because anyone Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t like was probably alright, really. “You were doing a good job on the monkey bars.”

“Thank you.” Harry replies, as politely as he can. He wonders what it means, to be doing a good job on something like monkey bars, but the man is older than he is and probably knows more about things like monkey bars and playing. He seems very smart, judging by the big title of the book in his lap. “How come you’re at the park? I guess you’re not on a field trip.”

“I guess not.” The man’s smile grows a tiny bit wider. “I’m waiting for my nephew. He’s about seven and a half now. He should be here today and I’m to spend some time with him.”

“I’m seven and a half. And you seem like you’d be a good uncle.” Harry nods confidently. “I bet he really likes you.”

“I hope he does too. I haven’t seen him in a very long time.” A little bit of the tiredness in his voice seeps through into his smile and Harry turns suddenly as he hears his teacher calling for the students to line back up. “What’s your name, sir?”

“John Black.” The man replies evenly, without a second of hesitation, as he waves goodbye to Harry. He’s probably telling the truth, Harry reasons, as coming up with fake names is very hard to do on the spot. “Thank you for the conversation.”

“Thanks to you too.” Harry grins, waving rapidly, before shooting off to join his classmates. Aunt Petunia will certainly hear about it if he holds the class up, and he has been doing so well for the last day and a half. It’s not worth sacrificing it. Harry, with his head turned in the opposite direction, does not know that the man watches him until he fades out of sight.

“I’d make a good uncle?” The man chuckles, shaking his head. “If only you knew the half of it.”


	2. meeting two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cover swings open for a split second as he is tucking the book into his waistband, and he sees the name Lily Potter written in sparkling purple ink, the i dotted with a heart, and his jaw nearly falls off from how far open his mouth hangs.

Three weeks later, Aunt Petunia brings both boys to the park.

Of course, she has only brought along Harry to keep up appearances, but the fact that he is being allowed out to play a second time this month has his hopes soaring higher than they ever have before. Harry is cautious, of course, about this, just as he is about all things, but this is a luxury, a kindness extended in an incident that will likely never repeat itself, so he takes it upon himself to enjoy this.

And there he is, the ragged man from the last time Harry was here, sitting on the same blue bench. A few paint chips have attached themselves to the loose threads on his frayed pants, and Harry is curious as to why the man doesn’t flinch when one, on a particularly sharp piece of wood, pokes at his thigh when he moves the wrong way. Harry remembers getting splinters, back when he had first started living in the cupboard, and knows from experience that they’re horrible.

But the scars on the man’s face, three across his nose that slant downward from left to right, look new enough that maybe splinters don’t seem too scary anymore. The man chews on his lip just like Harry does when he’s nervous, turning another page, and Harry waits for Aunt Petunia to be distracted by her group of neighborhood gossips before running over to the man.

“Mister Black?” He calls, and the man looks up on the second iteration of the name, smiling softly. “It’s Harry.”

“I remember you. Did you enjoy your field trip?” The man shifts to the left, opening up a whole section of the bench for Harry, and he stares in wonder before sitting down.

“I did.” Harry nods, wondering when this privilege will be withdrawn, and keeps himself seated on the edge of the last panel of wood, just for a quick escape. “Did your nephew like you?”

“I’d hope he did.” The man chuckles. “James is a good sort of boy. He takes to new people very quickly, like his dad.”

“My dad’s name is James.” Harry remarks excitedly, his nervous energy manifesting itself in the form of his fingers tapping against his knobbly knees. He is a little more careful with his left knee, which is swollen just slightly, and the slight difference does not escape Mr. Black’s notice, though he brings no attention to it.

Harry had learned his parents’ names only a month before, when they had to fill out family trees in school and Aunt Petunia had grudgingly given him their names and birthdays, and had been telling everyone who would listen that his mum and dad were named James and Lily Potter, both born near the beginning of 1960. Vernon had grown sick of the noise and told him that drunkards’ names were not worth repeating, and if Harry so wanted to talk about his family history, he should join his parents and ask them.

The next day, when Harry was sent to the library to return Dudley’s unread books just as he was every other Thursday, he had started searching for their names in the old newspapers they filed away, to see if his father had ever won any awards or his mother had liked reading like he did. He’d found no answers, other than an obituary listing from early 1980 for Harold Evans, who went by Harry, and his wife, Heather, who were survived by their two daughters, Lily Potter and Petunia Dursley. Harry had supposed that, maybe, he’d been named for his grandfather, who only looked a tiny bit like him. Oddly enough, there was never a single mention of his father, or even a single reference to the car crash his parents had died in.

“James is a common name.” The man shrugs.

“John is too, and your name is John.” Harry shrugs. “We both know somebody named James, then.”

“We both do.” The man repeats, looking slightly troubled as he stares at a bush across the playground, and Harry frowns as the man suddenly gets up. The book slides off his lap as he stands, lying in the mixture of sand and dirt that always seems to coat the concrete surrounding playgrounds, and Harry could have sworn he saw something, or maybe even someone, move too, but the bush looked entirely normal despite the fact that the man still looked shaken. “We’ve had a lovely conversation again, Harry, but I really must be going.”

“Wait, Mister Black, you forgot your…” Harry picks up the book, but when he looks back up, the man is long gone. There is no trace of him ever having been there, save for the book Harry clutches like a lifeline, and he reads the title, Pride and Prejudice, before he tucks it into the waistband of his shorts, apologizing to the book as he does so. It is the only way to hide it, and his too big shirt falls like a curtain over it, not betraying that something arguably more precious than Harry himself is hidden within it.

He has no idea what prejudice means, but it seems like it would make for a good story. Big words tend to be that way.

The cover swings open for a split second as he is tucking the book into his waistband, and he sees the name Lily Potter written in sparkling purple ink on the top left corner, the i dotted with a carefully colored in heart, and his jaw nearly falls off from how far open his mouth hangs.

Lily Potter.

This book belonged to his mother.

He opens it again, when in the privacy of his cupboard later that night, gently tracing his fingers over the gentle curves of her letters. She wrote her y’s exactly like he does, with a loop rather than a straight diagonal bar, and his eyes swim with tears as he thinks that, once upon a time, she must have touched these pages just as he is now. Maybe she held the book while he slept in her arms, or maybe his father had read these words to her before bedtime, like he hears Uncle Vernon reading Dudley stories.

He tucks it under his pillow, one hand closed over it just to make sure it will still be real tomorrow morning, and dreams of his parents.

For once, the dream does not end in green lights and screaming.


	3. meeting three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Professor R. J. Lupin.” Hermione reads, off the trunk, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat because he knows this man. He made Harry feel loved, made Harry feel like he was worth something, and gave him arguably the best present of his life, which was tucked deep in an inside pocket of his trunk even now.
> 
> “The J stands for John”, Harry pipes up, before turning away, unsure how to explain that he knows that.

“Professor R. J. Lupin.” Hermione reads, off the trunk, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat because he _knows_ this man. He made Harry feel loved, made Harry feel like he was worth something, and gave him arguably the best present of his life, which was tucked deep in an inside pocket of his trunk even now.

“The J stands for John”, Harry pipes up, before turning away, unsure how to explain that he knows that. “It’s a guess.”

The threadbare suit, too short in the wrists and ankles, is the same as it was all those years ago, and judging by the patterns of patching, Harry realizes that it may well be the same suit. But Professor R. J. Lupin sleeps on, while Harry wonders if he named himself John Black for Sirius Black. Maybe he loved Sirius Black, once, and was betrayed just as his parents were.

One thing in common, he muses, as the air grows too cold, and he wakes up with Professor Lupin’s arms around him.

“Mister Black”, he slurs, thankfully too quietly for others to hear, and Professor Lupin only holds him a little closer for it. “You came back for me.”

“Of course, Harry.” The voice that he’s heard in his dreams almost as much as his mother’s is calming, comforting, and Harry leans into him just a little bit more. “Why would anyone leave you behind?”

* * *

“Professor?” Harry edges into the room just after dark, having snuck away after dinner, and withdraws his most prized possession from his robe pocket to set it on the table. Professor Lupin, who Harry still thinks of as Uncle John, blinks in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to see it again. The raggedy old book, which Harry has faithfully guarded all these years, has been read time and time again over the years, sometimes in a voice that Harry thinks his mother may have sounded like, and it is time he gives it to someone who needs it more than him. “I think you dropped this, a long time ago.”

“I think it found who it was looking for, Harry. Just as I did, that afternoon.” Remus smiles, shaking his head. He pushes the book back across the desk into hands Harry did not realize were waiting for it back. “She would have wanted you to take as much comfort from it as you could. And, if you’d like, I have another. Make it a matching set.”

Remus digs through his trunk for a second before pulling out a bright blue book, with a small boy and a brown dog on the cover, and hands it to Harry, who gratefully takes it and reads the title. The Phantom Tollbooth, it declares, in white letters, and he flips the cover open to wonder why he is getting this present. His heart clenches tight in his chest when he reads the words “Property of J. Potter” written in large, bubble-like letters, and he looks up to Remus in awe.

“Favorite books are like little bits of the people we love, Harry.” Remus looks at the book for a second, almost wistful, and nods, as if he knows it is something meant for Harry. Maybe he’s imagining James reading this aloud, Harry wonders, or perhaps reading aloud to James. Harry feels almost close to this father he’s never known, through Remus, and a soft smile graces his face without him knowing. “Even when they’re gone, you can find them in the pages.”

“Thanks, Uncle John.” The words come out unbidden and Harry nearly drops the books in his surprise. “S—Sorry, I mean, that’s not your name. Anymore, I mean, I guess it was, but…”

“You’re welcome, Nephew James.” Remus chuckles, rather than looking mad, and Harry feels a surge of emotion like a geyser, from somewhere deep in his chest, when he remembers that the nephew John Black had been looking for was named James. James, like his father, and he blushes in embarrassment when he realizes that James being his father’s name was likely exactly what Remus had been going for.

“You… you mean that?” Harry asks timidly, clutching the books like a lifeline. Pride and Prejudice lies directly against his heart, his mother’s handwriting separated from his heart by thin layers of paper, skin and bone, and he breathes deep, trying to pull her from the pages and into himself. “That you were looking for me?”

“You were all I had left, cub.” Remus crosses the room and Harry stiffens, still scared by sudden movements, only settling when he feels Remus’ arms wrap around him. He runs his fingers over the worn corners of the blue book, feeling calmer than he has in weeks, what with this whole Sirius Black thing. “Of course I was looking for you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“I won’t.” Harry replies, and actually feels sure of himself, for once.


End file.
